


Graphic T-Shirts and Hello Kitty Sneakers

by Beth Harker (Beth_Harker)



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post canon, Pre Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2020-04-12 07:45:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19127653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beth_Harker/pseuds/Beth%20Harker
Summary: Jeremy Heere's clothing choices, before and after the Squip.





	1. Chapter 1

A couple days before the start of junior year, Michael’s darling mothers send him to the mall with fifty dollars for new shoes and the promise of another twenty to spend on whatever he wants if he comes back with a pair and wears them every day for a week. It's not a prospect that Michael is looking forward to. As he puts on his worn out Adidas, possibly for the last time, he mourns for them and for his feet. It's not that hard to find shoes that fit Michael’s aesthetic, but getting used to them is a process he'd be fine skipping. 

To distract himself from the indignity he's being bribed to endure, Michael blasts _Ironic_ on his car stereo. It's aggressively 90’s, aggressively Canadian, and fun to sing along to— an all around win. He pulls into the Heere driveway, honks his horn, and smiles as Jeremy comes rushing out of the house to provide him with moral support in this, Michael’s time of need. Swinging himself into the car, Jeremy bumps his shoulders against Michael’s, like he's being pushed by an unseen force. Maybe he is. Jeremy has this way of lurching and collapsing his way into vehicles. It's one of his many charms. 

“Gimme me a second. My sweater’s stuck in the door.” 

“One.” Michael sticks out his tongue. 

“Ass.” 

“So, how freaking ironic is it that my parents want me to buy shoes just when I've got these ones the way I like them?” Michael asks, turning his key in the ignition and starting them on their way. 

“That's not the meaning of ironic.” 

“I'm telling you, man, it's like ten thousand spoons, when all you need is a knife.”

“That's not—”

“It's a death row pardon, two minutes too late.” 

Jeremy exhales loudly, purses his lips, and raises his eyebrows. He makes the best expressions, and they just get better the more Michael ribs him. 

“How long have you been listening to this on repeat?” 

“Not long. Five minutes. We’re at the start of a cycle, my friend. An ironic, ironic cycle.” 

Jeremy rolls his eyes, but doesn't put up any further resistance, and by the third repetition of the song, he's humming along, fingers tapping out the beat against his knees. They arrive at the Menlo Park Mall, a place that Michael has a love-hate relationship with. The crowds of people inside are a lot to deal with, and the lighting is bad. The crappy food, on the other hand, is top notch, and Michael’s got a hookup at Spencer’s Gifts who helps him order old sodas on the downlow, without him having to explain to his moms why he's deliberately giving himself food poisoning. 

“Maybe my Crystal Pepsi’s come in,” Michael tells Jeremy. 

“You’re gonna make yourself sick again.” 

“I'm going to take a literal sip of the past.” 

“Yeah, and then you’ll hurl it back up.” 

“It's worth it.” 

“Ironic.” 

“I know you are, but what am I?” 

To keep Jeremy from retorting, Michael slings an arm over his shoulder, which gets him a smile. He makes note of their parking spot, ‘cause there’s no way in hell Jeremy’s going to remember, and steers them into the mall, taking a deep breath of the greasy food court smell, to fortify himself against the cicada-like buzzing of the light bulbs and the thrum of unfamiliar people. 

Michael pulls up his hood and jams his hands in his pocket. 

“Eat first?” Jeremy asks, quieter than before. 

Michael nods. 

“It's like… uh… like lobsters,” Jeremy says, hand on Michael’s elbow, moving them towards one of the food court’s corner tables. “I don't know first hand, ‘cause shellfish are super not kosher, but they say that if you just … like… like throw them in boiling water, they scream, y’know? Am I making sense?” 

“Totally,” Michael says. To most people, Jeremy wouldn't be. Michael has been friends with Jeremy since they were four, more than long enough to follow his mental leaps and make sense of his bouts of stuttering. Jeremy is saying that when you cook lobsters you need to raise the heat gradually, rather than throwing them into scalding water all at once. Similarly, he and Michael need to spend some time warming up in the food court, so that the rest of the mall isn't an unbearable shock to the system. 

“I’ll get snacks,” Jeremy says, posture loosening with the relief of being understood. It goes both ways. Being alone with his hoodie and his headphones is the best way Michael’s got of coming to terms with where they are and Jeremy’s giving him that. 

Ten minutes of waiting for Jeremy, two plates of chili-cheese fries, and a meaningful conversation about whether or not there should be a modern remake of Apocalypse of the Damned later, Michael’s ready to embrace his shoey doom with an open heart. 

—————-

The process begins with a circle around the Payless interior, followed by another circle, and another. Michael’s left shoe sings the song of flip-flap-flop through the mouth-like hole at the toe, where the sole has long since become partially detached. It's a reminder of why he's here. Nonetheless, pacing around and drinking in the shoe store ambience is a part of the shopping process. When Michael was little he once caught his moms playing rock-paper-scissors to decide which of them would be stuck with the task of taking him shopping. Michael can't blame them for hating to do it, because he hates it too. At least it's better with Jeremy. 

On the seventh or so lap of the shoe store, Jeremy starts eying the boxes. On the tenth, he begins picking some of them up. He gets as many as he can carry and gets Michael to sit down, arranging the shoe pile besides them. 

“These ones have high ankles, like the ones you’re wearing,” Jeremy says, picking up a pair to look over. He sticks a hand inside. “Never mind. You’re gonna hate them.” 

“Why?” 

“They’re slippery on the inside, see?” Jeremy hands the shoe over for Michael to feel. 

“Yeah,” Michael agrees. “Not my thing.” 

The next four pairs aren't as easily vetoed on sight. They’re all pretty similar— clunky and white, with soft soles and high ankles. Michael tries them on, and they pinch in all the wrong places. 

The fifth pair are white like the others, but they've got these giant plush Hello Kitty faces on the front. 

Michael snorts out a laugh. “Very funny, Jer. What the fuck?” Behind them, a woman with a small child glares. “What the fuck?” Michael amends, in a carefully child friendly whisper. Jeremy has gone bright red. 

“I grabbed the… grabbed the? Wrong? Box?” 

“Sure you did.” 

“I did!” 

“Don't _pussyfoot_ around the issue, Jeremy.” 

Jeremy groans, and hides his face in his hands, clear proof the Michael is a genius and a supreme pun master. He mutters something, the words muffled by his palms. 

“What was that?” Michael asks. 

“Not important. Never mind.” 

Michael shrugs, and moves on to the next pair of shoes, trying them on. 

Another weird sound from Jeremy. 

“Seriously dude, you have to speak up.”

Jeremy’s hand latches onto Michael’s arm. “I accidentally grabbed my size, not yours.” 

“Ok?” 

“Do you dare me to buy them?” 

“Do you want me to?” 

“That's not how dares work. You have to dare me to buy them, then I'll have to buy them. I won't have any choice. But only if you dare me to do it.” 

“So you _do_ want me to dare you.” 

Jeremy clams up. He looks away. Michael glances at him, removes the next pair of shoes from their box, and inspects the inside. They’re back to white high tops in Michael’s size. These ones aren't as bad as the other pairs. They feel weird, but nothing is as weird as Jeremy when he gets like this. If Jeremy wants Hello Kitty shoes he should just buy them. It's not like Michael would laugh at him for it, at least not meanly. Instead, Jeremy’s come up with this game that Michael’s going to have to play, because Jeremy is his best friend and it's apparently what he needs. 

“I dare you to buy the shoes,” Michael says.

“They've got Hello Kitty on the front!” 

“Yup. And I triple dog dare you to buy them.” 

“I'm gonna buy them.” 

“Awesome. They’ll look good on you.” 

Jeremy doesn't answer, but holds the box to his chest, while Michael tries on the rest of his shoes, until he finds a pair that he can cope with. They don't make it to Spencers, because Jeremy is convinced everybody can see through his shopping bag, and when they get back to Michael’s car they have to wait ten minutes for Jeremy to stop hyperventilating. Other than that, it's a successful shopping trip.


	2. Chapter 2

Michael tries goading Jeremy into wearing the sneakers to school the day after Jeremy buys them. He even tries _daring_ Jeremy to wear them, but that's not enough to make it happen. 

“I don't need to give Rich another reason to try and flush my head down the toilet,” Jeremy tells Micheal. They’re sitting on Jeremy’s bed, where he’s placed the Hello Kitty shoes on top of the comforter, for his and Michael’s mutual contemplation. There’s something wack about having a pair of shoes on the bed, even one as pristine and unused as these. Michael’s hands itch to push them onto the floor. He rubs his thumb against his ring finger repeatedly to keep himself from doing it. Now is the time to dispense wisdom, not make matters worse. 

“He’s going to treat you like garbage no matter what you do, isn't he?” 

“It's not fair.” 

“It isn't, and it won't be till we graduate. Might as well do what you want, since he’s not going to magically start liking you anyway.” 

“Nobody at the entire school likes me. My existence is a stain upon the high school social fabric.”

“I like you, and I like the shoes. So wear them. It’ll be fun. High school’s pretty much over. I'm like 90 percent sure that high school is fake.”

“No.”

“Wear the shoes. It’ll be awesome.”

“No.” 

“It’ll be super mega awesome.” 

Jeremy does what Michael has been meaning to do for a while, and swipes the shoes off the bed. They hit the ground with a thump of finality. Michael groans and flops back against the bed.

“I'm not trying to be difficult,” Jeremy says. “It's like I'm on the verge of something. I can't explain it. It's like I'm such a mess, and I could die, but not literally. Maybe literally. I don't know. It's like I’d be someone else if I could. I don't know. I seriously don't know. It's like I might explode.”

“That's normal, bud. We’re sixteen. Our bodies are recalibrating. I read something about that, in an anti drug PSA. It was about not doing pot ‘till you turn 21, but I have my own theories. I think it's good to explode a little. You’ve just gotta learn how to relax and enjoy the fireworks.” 

Jeremy lies down on his stomach next to Michael. “I can't remember the last time I felt relaxed,” he says, and buries his face in the comforter. A second later, he lifts his head just enough to pluck off his glasses and toss them to the side, and then resumes burying it. It's hella melodramatic, but that's just Jeremy. 

It's not hard for Michael to conjure up times when Jeremy has been calm. In all of Michael’s favorite memories, Jeremy is there, and Jeremy is happy. Michael thinks of Jeremy bopping around in the backseat of his moms’ car on the way to their first concert (Weird Al). He thinks of Jeremy getting excited when they beat a level in one of their video games. He thinks of the sleepovers they've had, and the times they've got stoned in Michael’s basement. 

Jeremy tells Michael everything, and he doesn't lie. If he's saying he's never been happy or calm, it's ‘cause that's how he feels right now. The issue is that Jeremy’s an unreliable narrator, even in his own life. He gets too tied up in trivial shit to see what's really going on. 

Michael absently pats Jeremy’s head for a few minutes, until it gets boring. Then, he hops off the bed to grab his Gameboy out of his bag. The discarded Hello Kitty sneakers gaze grotesquely up at him from their spot on the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

When he's got the Squip, Jeremy doesn't look like himself. He doesn't act like himself, either. Micheal vanquishes Jeremy’s technological puppet master, but Jeremy doesn't instantly bounce back. His strings are cut in some places and tangled in others. There's shit to deal with. It's a process. 

Jeremy’s glasses are the first visual cue that he's not a stranger anymore. He puts those back on in the hospital, squinting at Michael as though he's trying to look at him through a keyhole. He adjusts and readjusts them on his nose, and when Michael comes back to visit the next day and finds Jeremy asleep, he still hasn't taken them off. Jeremy leaves the hospital with little red indentations around his eyes, because he refuses to remove his glasses for anything. Nobody’s about to make him. Michael doesn't ask about it, but Mr. Heere calls him up one Saturday morning and tells him a little: 

“I just saw him without them for the first time since everything happened, and he snapped at me to go away,” is how Mr. Heere explains it. “Now, I don't know. He was coming out of the shower, which could explain it— the snapping and the glasses.” 

“Yeaah,” Michael drags out the syllable in a nervous sing-song. He’s got a video game going as they talk, and the distraction lessens some of his discomfort, but not all of it. Mr. Heere has always sucked at knocking before entering rooms, and it's always bugged Jeremy. It's some kind of an army thing or whatever— hella wack considering Mr. Heere was never in the army, but that’s how he is. It’s probably good that Mr. Heere has never held a gun or gone on an imperialistic killing spree, despite the whole ten-hut ~let’s brush our teeth in a tree because we’re _men_ ~ aesthetic he adopts in times of uncertainty. 

“I dunno,” says Michael. “It's probably not Jeremy having a glasses free alter ego. Maybe you just ambushed him with your soldier-sona.” 

“My what?” Mr. Heere laughs. “You’ll have to explain that one, son.” 

“Uh…” As Michael guides his video game character around fireballs and bottomless pits, he tries to figure out how to avoid going into a detailed description of why Mr. Heere isn't doing himself any favors by playing drill sergeant. Mr. Heere is fragile, and Michael’s moms taught him about speaking badly of things that made others happy. 

“Is that Mario in the background?” Mr. Heere asks.

(It isn't. It's Icebreaker. Same era as original Mario, but cooler because nobody has ever heard of it.)

“Sonas are a thing,” Michael explains. “You can ask Jeremy about it.” 

“Are they good things?” 

Michael shrugs. It's not much of an answer, especially considering he's on the phone. Even with the music and sound effects of his game, the silence is a lot to deal with. “You’re a good dad,” Michael assures Mr. Heere. “It's okay if you’re weird. A lot of animals eat their young, like grizzly bears and sea bass. You’re doing really well.” 

 

Mr. Heere sighs. Michael glances away from his game long enough to check the time on his computer. Mr. Heere is really nice, and he's really trying. He's almost like a friend to Michael, if a guy in his mid-forties who is also Jeremy’s dad can count as a friend. He's a comrade, at the very least. Michael should try to help him more, because his moms have always taught him that the appropriate response to seeing somebody struggling is to help if you can. 

Jeremy doesn't come back to school right away. Michael comes over to visit a lot, but they don't say enough to each other. Initially, Jeremy dresses in jeans and a grey shirt. As days pass, he graduates to a black shirt, one that's on inside out. Not that unusual. Looking like he got dressed in the dark is Jeremy’s aesthetic, albeit typically with less black and more obnoxiously colorful striped t-shirts. Michael teases Jeremy about it like all the time, but this time around he bites his tongue, and keeps his mouth shut— until he doesn't. They’re in Michael’s basement. Michael’s trying to introduce Jeremy to Icebreaker, but Jeremy keeps zoning out, and the tag sticking out of the back of Jeremy’s inside-out shirt is beckoning Michael. He tugs it. Jeremy swats at Michael’s hand, like he's swatting at a fly. 

“Why’re you wearing it like that?” Michael asks.

“Like what?” 

“I figure it has to be deliberate, because it's been that way for three days in a row, unless the whole inside out thing is a permanent fixture on your body now.” 

“It's not permanent,” Jeremy says. He pauses the game, but doesn't say anything else right away. He scrunches up his nose like he’s annoyed. “It's the Eminem shirt,” he admits in a whisper. “ _It_ made me buy it. I didn't want to look at it, so…” 

“You didn't want to look at it, but you wanted to _wear_ it?”

“Like you ever look at your shirts?”

“You’re not making sense.” 

“I mean, they’re always under your hoodie, so you aren't really looking at them. It's the same, yeah? We've both got shit… I mean _shirts_ that we don't look at.” 

Michael opens his mouth to say something, but he can't think of anything, so his jaw just hangs there. Jeremy rolls his shoulders. He rubs at his sleeves like they’re itchy. Michael wishes he knew something interesting about shirts to tell Jeremy— something about the history of textiles, or the origin of the word shirt, or the story of some super hero’s shirt design. Something to distract Jeremy so he can be happy. 

“Inside out is a cool style,” Michael says. “Very punk. It's subversive!” 

“I— it's… Maybe?” 

“It's definitely punk. Like something out of early 2000’s Hot Topic. Especially if you cut holes in it or something.” 

“Okay,” Jeremy agrees. “Let's do that.” 

That's how he and Michael end up shredding Jeremy’s Eminem t-shirt. The end result is stupid looking, but the key to getting away with stupid clothing is to commit yourself to it. Jeremy seems up to the challenge.


	4. Chapter 4

Jeremy and Michael develop rituals. That's good. Michael loves the fuck out of a good ritual. 

One of them is called ‘Movies Without Talking’. It stems from Jeremy getting shocked by his Squip when he stuttered, which isn't something he's admitted to exactly, but Michael’s been able to sleuth things out and make his own deductions. He’s had conversations with Rich about how his Squip handled his lisp. The way that Jeremy shuts down whenever his stutter shows up paints a clear picture of what happened. 

Movies Without Talking is essentially cuddling, but codified. Jeremy comes over. Michael throws something on the TV. They cling together weirdly. Jeremy doesn't say a word. There are rules and regulations, so everybody knows what to expect. That's how Michael likes to operate. They both make allowances - Jeremy for Michael’s aversion to spontaneity and abandonment-issue-induced over-abundance of affection, and Michael for Jeremy’s newfound inability to just function like a person. 

Michael eventually learns that Jeremy is still wearing his Squip clothes because the Squip had forced him to give his regular stuff to Goodwill. It's around that time that he gets another call from Mr. Heere, who has maybe figured out a different version of the same thing. 

“Hey, champ,” Mr. Heere starts the call. “I'm going to give you my credit card number.” 

“Excellent,” Michael answers, without thinking. “…wait, what?” 

“Have you got a pen and paper?” 

“Uh-huh. Yep. Just one thing. Why?” 

“Jeremy needs new clothes.” 

“Okay. So how is my stealing your identity to buy pogs on EBay gonna help that?” 

“I'm trusting you not to do that. Remember how we talked about how you know the rules of being a teenager better than I do?” 

“Yeah,” Michael says. It's a good thing that Mr. Heere isn't there to see him deflating, not just under the lack of pogs, but also under the weight of the responsibility he keeps getting given in the care and keeping of his best friend.

“Can you order him something to wear? He doesn't want me to take him to the mall, and he won't order anything for himself. He's still wearing the those clothes he bought in September when… things… started. I'm not hip to the new style. You might say I'm square. Is that how you’d say it?” 

“Hella square.” 

“Right! _Hella_ square! It sounds a lot better when you put it that way, kiddo.” 

Mr. Heere lets out a forced laugh. It's enough for Michael to take pity on him. “Give me your number and I'll handle shit,” he promises. 

(Mr. Heere has asked him enough favors by now that Michael figures he's allowed to swear around him.)

“Thanks,” Mr. Heere answers, totally not acknowledging how Michael just cursed in his general directions, which just goes to prove Michael’s theory. 

“No prob-fucking-blemo. So, what’s that number? You sure I can't use it to buy pogs?”

——————-

Michael hates shopping for clothes. That's why he always drags Jeremy along with him. He's still wearing the shoes he bought back before school started, the ones that Jeremy carefully picked out. It took a while, but they've got that transparent feeling that shoes are supposed to have. There's nothing worse to Michael than being hyperaware of his feet, or any other part of his body, because something's going on with his clothing and harshing his vibe. Michael usually doesn't think of Jeremy when he looks at his shoes, but he catches himself pondering their shoe shopping expedition as he scours the internet for Jeremy’s new threads. Jeremy cared a lot about Michael that day. There was a solid hour when he was focused on nothing other than Michael’s well-being, right up until the Hello Kitty shoes showed up, and Jeremy went back to absorbing himself in the all-consuming ordeal of being Jeremy. 

Michael hates shopping for clothes, but not because he's got anything against clothes themselves. Clothes are cool, just tight and loose and itchy and hot and cold in all the wrong places. The first hour of shopping for Jeremy is hella fun, because Michael fills online shopping carts with everything he's ever thought looked cool, but had too many sensory issues to wear. He’s six hundred dollars deep in prospective purchases, and poised to enter Mr. Heere’s deetz and check out when two things dawn on him:

1\. Six hundred dollars is _definitely_ too much money to be spending on this venture.  
2\. Using Jeremy as a fashion doll, though extremely fun, isn't a good way to help him.

Regretfully, Michael leaves the wonderland of obscure band regalia and outdated video game tees behind, and strikes out in search of stripes and cardigans— comfy stuff, sort of nondescript, but very Jeremy. He hopes that these will be the enough to cover up the wounds that the Squip left behind. In all honesty, he feels like he’s assembling a pre-squip Jeremy Heere costume, but that doesn't make sense because pre-squip Jeremy Heere is who Jeremy _really_ is, and if anything the way that he’s dressing now is the costume. 

The total expenditure comes to eighty-seven dollars. Expedited shipping would bring it to a hundred and seven. It's not Michael’s money, and he should want to make Jeremy normal sooner, but all of a sudden his stomach hurts. Is this what being God feels like? Like, obviously Michael doesn't feel like god in the sense that god is omnipotent and holy or whatever. God isn't the right word. The word he’s searching for is in Latin, and it refers to God coming down from the sky to fix unsolvable problems in a way that leaves everybody aching and unsatisfied. It’s like _douche in the machine_ or something like that. Michael saw it on TV Tropes once, and it’s mega bad.

Michael chooses ground shipping, and hits confirm before his doubts can get the best of him. 

 

———————-

Mr. Heere lets Michael know when the clothes arrive in the mail. That's the only indication that Michael gets at first. Jeremy keeps wearing his Squip stuff for two days, and doesn't mention the new stuff to Michael, who doesn't bring it up, because he has no clue if Jeremy knows who picked out his new outfits for him. On the third day, Jeremy doesn't come to school. Michael texts to check on him, and he says he's okay. On the fourth day, Jeremy is late, but he's in a striped shirt and a cardigan, and things are about as normal as they ever are, which is to say that they fit into the routine of Jeremy and Michael’s _new_ normal, right up to and including the thing where they’re now friends with the likes of Chloe Valentine and Rich Goranski. 

(Or at least Jeremy’s friends with them. Michael is still withholding his opinion. The part of him that he's not withholding is his butt, which makes it into the seat of his former bullies’ cafeteria table day in and day out, like some kind of traitor.)

Jeremy is unaccountably wise about their new ~~friends~~ companions. 

“Chloe feels like she has to prove to everybody that she's top of the social food chain,” Jeremy explains to Michael one day, after Chloe calls Michael too weird for their table. “She's been nice for almost four days. It's like she had to go after someone to prove that she still can.” 

They aren't sitting at “their” table any more at this point. The minute Chloe said a word against Micheal, Jeremy had grabbed Michael’s arm and gone with him to sit elsewhere. The uncanny thing was that Christine, Rich and Jake had followed right away, and then Jenna, with just a quick backwards glance. Brooke had sat whispering with Chloe for a few minutes, but then joined the new table, looking as if she might cry. 

Eventually Chloe herself joins the table, with a flip of her hair and a bullshit comment about how nobody can take a joke. 

“Brooke and me have a lot in common,” Jeremy tells Michael on another occasion. 

“Like what?” Michael asks. One of the things that had struck him most during that dark time when Brooke and Jeremy were dating, was how the two of them didn't have a single solitary thing in common. Now that he's gotten to know Brooke better, Michael can acknowledge that she's a sweetheart, but she's still the farthest thing from a Jeremy doppelgänger. 

“We’re both sick of being _second_ or whatever. Like, we aren't first. I mean, Brooke’s got Chloe, and…” 

“You’ve got your Squip,” Michael finishes. 

“It’s just like, Chloe has this big personality, and she knows what she wants so…”

“Is it still giving you issues?”

“Huh?” 

“Your Squip.” 

Jeremy tugs at his shirt. 

“Hey.” Michale puts a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. “I’m here for you, bud.”

“Have you considered… being there for Jenna?” 

That's a weird question. Probably, the weirdness shows on Michael’s face, because what does Jenna have to do with anything?

“You could… like… ask her questions about her life. Or tell her about yours! She'd like that. But mostly ask her about herself.” 

(Michael files hanging with Jenna under the list of things he's absolutely not going to do.)

About Jake, Jeremy explains that he's crushing every extra-curricular at the school to compensate for feelings of parental abandonment. As for Rich, Jeremy tells Michael that his habit of making really jerk-ass comments only to apologize profusely within seconds, or else get up and leave, has a lot to do with his programming. He talks about how Rich was a germaphobe before the Squip, so his Squip turned things like showers and hand-washing into something he got as a reward for behaving right. 

“And here I thought slimeball chic was the look he was going for,” Michael muses. 

Jeremy shrugs. “The Squips figure out how to make something acceptable with the materials they've got. Something other people will like. A little guy being an asshole is kinda supposed to be endearinger than like somebody else being an asshole. Maybe.”  
“Hate to break it to you, but you and Rich were both the farthest thing from endearing when you had your Squips in.” 

“I know.” Jeremy’s voice is soft. 

“Like, what kind of shitty algorithm tells you the key to social success is not washing your hands after you take a piss?” 

Jeremy shrugs, and that's the end of the conversation. 

The next day Jeremy doesn't show at school. He sends Michael some obviously bullshit texts about how he has a cold. The day after, and the next two days after that, he’s back, but dressed in the inside out Eminem shirt for whatever reason. He doesn't mention it, so Michael doesn't either. He watches carefully for other weird behavior, but doesn't find any. 

On Friday, Jeremy’s back to stripes and his blue cardigan, but he's shaky. Michael’s got two classes with him that day. In first period history, Jeremy is so out of it that he doesn't even respond when the teacher calls on him. Michael, who never answers questions in class, puts up his hand and says some bullshit about Napoleon just to get Jeremy out of the interrogation chair. 

(They aren't studying Napoleon. They’re studying the industrial revolution, and their poor teacher looks so downtrodden at Michael’s response that he fears he might have taken a year off her life. She gives everyone extra homework as punishment, but she leaves Jeremy alone.)

Jeremy doesn't show for lunch, or third period math. When his anxiety gets bad, he usually hangs in the nurse’s office. He's been doing that for years, and Michael assumes that where he is. He manages to successfully stealth text him under the desk, but the thing there is that only helps if Jeremy can evade the gaze of all adults at the school long enough to stealth text back. It's not like Michael can physically chase Jeremy down every time he goes weird and erratic. He wouldn't get a lot of studying done if he tried. 

(Which isn't to say that Michael gets a lot of studying done anyway, especially since all the Squip stuff. He has to be in the right mindset, and he just isn't these days.)

At the end of the day Jeremy isn't in the parking lot to meet Michael for his ride home. Michael leans against his car and waits. 

And waits. 

When it comes to the Squip incident, Michael still holds that not one iota of it was his own fault. He's always been a good friend to Jeremy, right up from the age of four onwards. If he does have one niggling doubt, however, it's the fact that he left the mall without him that day. Maybe Michael hadn't known how bad things were, and sure he'd tried to locate Jeremy and take him home, but he _hadn't_. Maybe if Michael had been there next to Jeremy when the Squip activated, or if he'd stuck with him at least overnight to make sure he wasn't dealing with side effects from the shady drugs he'd just taken, then he could've recognized the shit storm on the horizon. Maybe he could've figured out a way to deactivate it before it got a chance to run amuck in Jeremy’s brain. 

That's why Michael keeps waiting by his car. That's why he texts again. 

No answer. 

Michael texts Christine to see if Jeremy is hanging out with her, even though he's thoroughly sure that if Jeremy is hanging out with her, he's going to do something stupid like cry. It’s not that Michael doesn't want Jeremy to be able to hang out with other people, but he always goes home with Michael on Fridays, and Michael’s not at the point where he can deal with Jeremy blowing him off without telling him. 

Fifteen minutes later, Michael goes back into the school to look around. Another ten minutes, and Michael gets a text from Rich informing him that Jeremy is in the second floor bathroom. Jeremy is not doing well, and that Michael should probably be the one to figure out what to do about it. 

 

 

——-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback strongly appreciated. :)


	5. Chapter 5

The bathroom is barren. Heavy breathing exists somewhere, but in an ambient kinda way. Michael looks around, and spies two pairs of criss-crossed legs in the gap at the bottom of the second stall. The door swings open to reveal an abundance of Rich Goranski. 

Rich’s arm is outstretched and hella naked. It's burn scarred in most places, hairy in others, and _mega super_ naked, ‘cause no shirt. Rich’s face (above his bare chest) is tight. Air rushes in and out of Jeremy’s lungs in frantic huffs, and the worst of it is that Michael’s used to that. Jeremy and Rich are seated on opposite sides of the toilet. Jeremy also isn't wearing a shirt, which means either he and Rich were trying to get it on in the bathroom stall and something went wrong, or else something went wrong and _then_ Rich and Jeremy decided to strip. Either way, Michael stares at them blinking, unable to wrap his head around it. He slowly shuts the stall door, walks out of the bathroom, and ascends to a parallel universe, only not. What he actually does is take out his phone to see if Rich or Jeremy texted him anything, because that would _totally_ make _tons_ of sense. They probably sent him a string of messages neatly explaining everything, and he just missed it. He scrolls an entire three days back before Rich walks out.

Micheal gestures to his own hoodie clad chest, and raises his eyebrows to communicate his bone deep feeling of _what the ever loving fuck_.

“Solidarity.” Rich says. It sounds like _thalidarity_. Michael’s still not used to that. Charring (and shirtlessness) aside, Rich doesn't look that different than he did back when he was slamming Michael into lockers. It’s just his voice that has changed so much. 

“I don't get it,” Michael says.

“I thought you were supposed to be this great friend who isn't phased by anything.” 

“Uhhhh…” 

“Jeremy says you’re never phased by anything.” 

Michael pulls his hood up over his head. He's phased by lots of things. Furthermore, it used to be that nobody was more aware than Jeremy of all the many things that phased Michael. 

“If I didn't know better, I'd say you were turned on by my manly grandeur and didn't know what to do about it,” Rich says. (It phases Michael. So very much.)

Micheal is here for Jeremy. He's just gotta clear his head. “Is he—” Michael starts, then falters. Jeremy is sitting half-dressed in the bathroom, but that's a fact, not something that he needs to ask questions to verify. “Is he okay?” Michael settles on. 

“Come on,” Rich says. 

Michael follows Rich back into the bathroom, where Jeremy’s stall is wide open. He hasn't moved from his spot on the floor. Rich plops down on the other side of the toilet, and Michael takes a seat in front of it. In this position, they form a semi-circle around the porcelain throne, like campers getting ready to tell ghost stories around the shittiest campfire in all existence. Instinctively, Michael scoots in closer to Jeremy, moving in front of him as much as he can, to block him from Rich. 

And it is like a campfire. It really is. Michael’s got to protect Jeremy, but other than that, their job is to tell stories, like maybe the story of how they all ended up here in the first place. 

“You go first,” Michael tells Rich. 

“I have no idea what you're talking about.” 

A quick glance at Jeremy verifies that he's not going to be able to provide Michael-to-Normal-People translation services at the moment. Whether or not Rich even is a normal person is up for debate. He might be evil, or the enemy, or (more frightening still) he might be weird and nerdy, an ally and a friend. 

“What's happening?” Michael asks. 

Rich shrugs. Jeremy says nothing. 

It's not uncommon for Jeremy to go catatonic. The missing shirt is new. It shows how fucked up his back is from everything the Squip did to him, with electrocution scars up and down the spine. Rich’s back bears matching shards of lighting, but his is jagged and random, most of it having been burnt away in the fire. Out of everybody in the room, Michael’s the only one who has never been flat out tortured, and it weighs on him and makes his stomach ache, because Jeremy’s time with the Squip was honest to God the low point of Michael’s entire life, but comparatively it was _nothing_ , and Rich treated him like shit and hurt him for years but next to what Rich himself was going through Michael’s life of being shoved around and mocked relentlessly was _awesome_. 

In the hall beyond the bathroom doors, somebody turns on a vacuum. 

It's Friday and it's late. 

Clubs have let out. The doors could lock, or the janitor could come in to clean and freak out. There are bad possibilities afoot. 

“Let's not get stuck in the bathroom,” Rich says. Michael winces. It's almost like he knows, which isn't all together unlikely. Jeremy’s Squip gave him more than his fair share and of dirt on other people’s lives. 

Michael touches Jeremy’s arm while Rich’s eyes bore into him. Michael looks back towards Rich, but he can’t make eye contact, let alone return his stare. He halfheartedly pats Jeremy again. 

“Could you just leave?” Michael asks Rich. 

“Sure,” Rich says. He's very quiet as he stands up, brushing off his pants. He grabs his shirt too. Thank goodness for small favors. He even shuts the door. Then he spends so long running the water in the sink that Michael starts to wonder if he turned it on for funsies then bolted. When the water finally goes off, Michael flops back against the stall door. 

Michael’s got to reorient himself to the situation. He's in a bathroom, and he's the least important person there. Rich is gone. The tiles are cold under his hand. He doesn't want to think about what he's touching, but the texture is soothing in its way. There's something astringent in the air. Jeremy's essentially in flight or fight mode. Michael’s read all about that, including how it doesn't always include either fighting or fleeing. Jeremy’s a freezer through and through, except for when he's trying to appease the voices in his head by doing what they want him to. He gets helpless and can't pull himself out of it, which is fine. Michael supports Jeremy being zonked and scared if that's how things have to be. It's just better if he's somewhere safe where he can go through things at his own pace. 

“Where’s your stuff?” Michael asks, his voice cracking from in an effort to be the gentlest person to ever walk the face of the earth. Unfortunately, it sounds kind of like he's talking to a little kid or a cat. Jeremy wouldn't want that. Michael just wants Jeremy to be okay or, if okay isn't an option, spilling out emotions in Michael’s car or his basement and getting them out of his system. 

“Can you tell me where your things are?” Michael asks. No response. 

Jeremy freezes, but he also appeases. He’ll take orders. They’re not the nicest things to throw at him, all things considered, but they’ve really gotta jet, and forward movement of some kind is necessary.

“Tell me where your things are,” Michael says. 

“Rich has them in his bag.” 

Input begets response, but not, in this case, the response that Michael wants. “Groovy. What the hell kind of demon even _is_ Rich Goranski?” 

Jeremy shakes his head. 

“I feel you. Stand up, ‘kay?” Michael unzips his hoodie, even though he really needs it, and hands it over to Jeremy. “Put this on,” Michael says, very steady, as if the unwanted lightness of the T-shirt he's left himself with isn't making his skin itch.

 

Jeremy does as he's told, and Michael wraps an arm around his shoulders. “We’re going to my car,” Michael informs him. That’s exactly what they do. Michael gives the janitor a peace sign on the way out, ‘cause it’s important to appear natural and confident in times such as this. 

In Michael’s car, Jeremy curls up with his head resting on the dashboard. 

“Babe...” Michael says. He’s not sure why he says it. It’s a departure from his usual _bud_ or _Jer_.

“I don’t want to wear this,” Jeremy says. 

“That’s cool, cause I want nothing more than to wear it. Give it over.” 

When Jeremy hands the sweatshirt back, however, it’s sweaty to the point where Michael doesn’t want it after all, so he balls it up in his lap. 

“Not feeling the whole shirt thing today?” Michael ventures. 

Jeremy shrugs. 

“Guess we know which of your parents you take after,” Michael says, cringing as soon as the words are out of his mouth, because no way was that the right thing to say. 

“I’m not a mess,” Jeremy says. It gives Michael something to latch onto. 

“Good! I’m glad to hear you say that!” 

““I mean I _am_ a mess, but I'm not just a mess. I'm on the verge of something.”

“You’re my best friend.” 

Jeremy nods. He seems so tired. Micheal puts his hand on Jeremy’s back, but the sweatiness is hard to deal with, so he unfolds the sweatshirt and uses it to kind of wipe Jeremy down. 

“It’s just like everything I do is wrong, especially clothes. I don’t wanna wear what it wanted me to wear, but who I was before sucked, and it’s like I want to do something, but the things I want to do are usually wrong, and I don’t know what I want to do anyway.” 

“Can I wipe off your glasses?” Michael asks. They’re streaky and gunky. 

“Okay?” There’s a tremor in Jeremy’s voice. 

“Is that ‘okay’ as in ‘yes’ or ‘okay’ as in you don’t wanna say no?”

Jeremy sniffs. 

“Alright,” Michael says. “It’s okay. You can keep them on.” He smooths back Jeremy’s hair, and starts the car. 

———————-

Back at Michael’s place, the night passes quietly. Michael’s got these Farscape VHS tapes that he found at a yard sale, so they binge those. Lying down on his bed makes Michael aware of how tired he is— so tired, in fact, that as much as he’d love to smoke a blunt, there’s not a chance in hell of him moving enough to get one. Jeremy lies down separately from Michael for a while, texting with somebody on his phone. Michael would normally ask, but he doesn’t. 

“Rich thinks you’re freaked out by his scars,” Jeremy tells Michael. 

“Huh?”

“Says you got all weird on him. Can you tell him you’re okay with the scars?”

Michael turns over on his side to get his phone out of his pocket. 

_”I am freaked out by you on a personal level,”_ he types. 

(He deletes that.)

 _”I‘m still trying to come to terms with how you used to treat me, and I don’t know how to act around you,”_ he types out. 

(He deletes that, too.)

 _”It takes a lot of effort to forgive people, and I’ve been using all mine on someone else,”_ Michael types.

(Deletified!!)

_”Your scars are sexy. Gazing directly at your magnificence is like trying to look directly at the sun.”_

(Sent)

Jeremy scoots over closer to Michael, so his forehead touches Michael’s shoulder. He wraps an arm around Michael’s midsection. 

“Hi,” Michael says. He ruffles Jeremy’s hair. Jeremy nods. The TV drones on. Rich texts Michael something back, but Michael doesn’t look at it. 

Jeremy hands Michael his glasses. For a moment, Michael just holds them, like he doesn’t know what they are. Jeremy’s eyes are shut, but they still appear smaller and squintier than they should. There are dark bags under them that aren’t so noticeable when the glasses are there, and red indentations that show they’ve been sitting on him way too long. Michael brings the hem of his shirt up to his mouth to spit on it. He uses that to wipe the lenses of Jeremy’s glasses as clean as he can. 

Michael returns the glasses, and Jeremy puts them back on.


End file.
